


a floorplan (of my head and heart)

by meansgirl



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Depression, Future Fic, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, House Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-NHL!Jack, Relationship Problems, Serious Injuries, non-graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: “Dickey,” Coach rumbles, appearing in the doorway with a frown pulling the corners of his mustache down. “You better come quick. Where’s your phone?”Bitty’s hands are still wet as he stands in his parents’ den and watches his husband’s career come to a screeching halt.





	a floorplan (of my head and heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhenSheReads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenSheReads/gifts).



> Many thanks to Kisa Hawklin, who acted as beta for this and was wonderfully supportive as always <3
> 
> Please note that there is an injury in this fic, and it is career ending, but it isn't depicted particularly graphically (no blood or anything!). 
> 
> Title from Tegan and Sara's "Floorplan" because I am not good at titles and songs are the crutch I lean on!
> 
> Sincere holiday wishes to WhenSheReads, who requested hurt/comfort with a happy ending! I hope you enjoy this fic!

Bitty is in Madison for his father’s 60th birthday bash when it happens.

He spends all of Friday in the kitchen with his mother, and they’re cleaning up just after puck drop. Jack’s game filters in from the den along with color commentary by Coach, who has become quite the Falconers fan over the years. He treats game day with a reverence nearly as intense as Jack’s. He has _rituals_. Bitty knows without looking that the TV remotes are aligned just so, next to the puck Jack gave Coach after the first game he and Suzanne attended over nine years ago.

Bitty helps his mother wrap the last two cold cut platters in saran wrap, stacks them in the fridge, and gets started on the dishes.

“Oh, Dickey, don’t,” his mother chides, a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get them later, why don’t you go sit down and relax?”

Bitty smiles at her and shakes his head. He knows her knee is bothering her today, watched her wince as she straightened from pulling the roast out of the oven not an hour ago. “I got it, mama. You go rest your knee and I’ll be right in.”

His mother presses a sweet kiss to his temple, the way she has since he was a little boy, and gives him a squeeze. “You’re a prince, you know. And that boy of yours, _lord_.”

Bitty laughs down at his sudsy hands. His mother calling Jack “that boy of yours” after all this time fills him with a fierce sort of appreciation and love. His parents are ardent supporters of their son-in-law, and his mother in particular adores Jack unconditionally. They’d Skyped with him just that afternoon, after he woke from his pre-game nap but before he headed to the rink, and Suzanne had overflowed with praise and good luck wishes.

“You go kill ‘em, baby,” she said, and Jack had laughed and promised to do it just for her.

Coach had rolled his eyes good naturedly (as if they all didn't know he was wearing his Falconers game-day socks) and mumbled about inappropriate crushes, and it had devolved into the usual scuffle and back and forth about Jack’s striking resemblance to his father and Mama’s insistence that _it’s nothing_ _untoward, Richard, honestly_.

“Yeah Coach, don’t cheapen what we have,” Jack had deadpanned, which had set Coach off into belly laugh territory as his wife’s face turned a shade below cherry.

Bitty has loved this trip home. He hasn’t been back since Christmas two years ago, and not without Jack for years now. Jack had been disappointed to miss Coach’s birthday party, but the season was the season. Bitty missed him, but it was nice too, to be here with his mama and Coach, soaking up their attention, and visiting with his Moomaw, who turns 90 next year. Bitty and Jack should be able to attend that party together, right in the middle of summer. Bitty can't wait.

He’s just running the hot water to set the last pan soaking when he hears his mother’s shout from the other room. It’s not a celebratory sound, and it’s not her usual flow of disdain for the other team. It’s fear. Bitty feels it in his bones, _knows_ almost instantly, and all he thinks is _Jack._ Daydreams of next summer vanish as his skin goes cold.

“Dickey,” Coach rumbles, appearing in the doorway with a frown pulling the corners of his mustache down. “You better come quick. Where’s your phone?”

Bitty’s hands are still wet as he stands in his parents’ den and watches his husband’s career come to a screeching halt.

 

*

 

It happens like this:

Jack sends the puck to Tater and takes off down the ice, hugging the boards, eyes tracking Poots on his way to snag the next pass, and Jack knows if he can just push for that last little bit of speed, he can get there--two Rangers linesmen are closing in on Poots, who Jack can already see is looking for an opportunity to move the puck.

Jack pushes, and just as he reaches the edge of the Falconers’ bench, Poots slaps the puck hard across the ice. It makes contact with Jack’s tape and he’s still moving, still-- and then the air leaves Jack’s lungs all at once.

It’s a check, it’s a _dirty_ check, his brain screams-- Jack’s left arm hits the stanchion at the end of the bench, and the player at his back shoves the rest of him into the boards. It’s like a rubber band, or like a cartoon. It’s Roadrunner’s body propelling out of the screen even as his legs are still in frame. Jack’s arm stays back, his body boomerangs around, and whatever was left in his lungs is punched out.

Jack hits the ice face first.

The pain in his shoulder and arm is like a presence, like a two ton weight pressing him down. His body hits the ice and his mouth tries to scream, but he just can’t get the breath to do it. It _hurts_.

Later, he won’t remember the shuffle off the ice, down the tunnel, and into the locker room. But when it’s all happening, Jack feels every step. He’s too aware of the sweat on his neck, his forehead, and the way it’s all heating up now that he’s off the ice. His pads are suffocating.

They cut his jersey off and Jack won’t remember that later, either, but while it’s happening he can’t take his eyes off the silver scissors flashing through the fabric. The pain ratchets back up when his pads are removed and Jack knows how truly screwed he is as he shivers on the edge of vomiting.

Jack hears the hiss of air through one of the trainers’ teeth through roaring ears. Dr. Murakami appears in front of him and starts talking. Jack swallows hard and tries to listen and comprehend.

“It’s definitely dislocated, Jack,” Murakami is saying. She’s got a gentle voice and a face that reminds Jack of Bitty’s mother. Jack knows there’s no way she’s going to pop his shoulder back in for him, but she explains it anyway. “We can not risk more damage by reducing it here, okay? I’m going to immobilize the shoulder and we’re sending you to General, sound good?”

Jack swallows again and reassures himself that he won’t throw up if he speaks. “Right. Okay.”

Dr. Murakami places her hands on his knees. “I know the pain’s pretty bad right now. I’m going to give you a shot of morphine to get you to the hospital. I will be there soon, but for now I’m calling ahead to have Dr. Andrejczuk meet you there.”

“Right,” Jack says again. He shifts a little, an unconscious movement, and the slight jostle is enough to send stabbing fire from his shoulder to his fingers. “Ffff - Ah. It uh--” he grunts, clenches his jaw. “It hurts down my arm. It’s not like last time I torqued my shoulder, it’s--”

“This is a lot worse than that,” Dr. Murakami says.

She’s such a nice person. She always talks to the players like they’re a little fragile, which Jack has always found funny. She’s shorter than Bitty, with a salt and pepper pixie cut and delicate wire framed glasses perched on her nose. Right now Jack appreciates how softly she speaks. It was comforting last season when he wrenched the same shoulder, and when he did the stupid thing a few years ago and ended up missing playoffs because his knee was the size of a cantaloupe.

It’s comforting again, her low tone and careful words. Jack has to focus, has to really listen to hear her. She’s straightforward but not abrupt. Her eyes are kind, but they hold his and don’t slip away. She doesn’t sugarcoat.

She has him try to make a fist. He can't move his fingers at all, and it sends white hot panic through him. Dr. Murakami is calm, but she acknowledges it's not a great sign.

“We need to get you out of the rest of your gear,” she says. “Then you’re going straight to the hospital. I want you scanned and x-rayed, then we’ll know what’s what. I’m going to do everything I can to reduce the possibility of nerve and tendon damage. Jack? You got it?”

“I got it. Yes.” He knows what she means is _permanent_ damage. There's definitely damage. His arm is fucking one hundred and ten percent damaged right now. Jack swallows the fear and tries to look like he can handle himself, or at least handle other people handling him.

“Okay.” Dr. Murakami turns to one of the medics to her left. He already has gloves on and an alcohol wipe in hand. “Keenan, let’s get Mr. Zimmermann an IV started and a shot of the good stuff, shall we? I think he’s ready.”

“Sure thing,” Keenan says, then he warns Jack of the cold of the swab before he applies it to Jack’s uninjured arm.

The shot of morphine hits Jack’s system like a ton of bricks, then the little tube is being clicked shut with a tiny clamp and Keenan tapes it to Jack’s inner arm. “You’ll be all set when you get to General now. No nervous nurses poking you too many times ‘cause they’re distracted by that pretty face, huh?”

Jack snorts. His body feels warm and slow. “Yeah, right.”

After that, Dr. Murakami and the medics step back so the trainers can move in to help Jack out of his gear and into sweats. The medics return to carefully immobilize Jack’s injured arm with a complicated arrangement of ace bandages. He can’t get a shirt on like that so they zip him into a hoodie with one sleeve dangling at his side. The whole thing probably takes twenty minutes, but Jack is slow and morphine-high, so it drags.

He thinks to ask for his phone from his bag before someone takes it to whatever car they're about to load Jack into. The screen is lit with incoming messages.

Jack waits until he's in the car to try and use it. His entire left side feels like it's throbbing with every beat of his heart, and he knows once the morphine burns through his system it's going to be agony.

“Jack? Baby?”

Jack doesn't even remember unlocking the phone, let alone finding Eric in his recents and bringing it to his ear.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack manages, before his throat closes up and the tears start coming.

 

*

 

Bitty and his parents work their way methodically through a pan of brownies once Bitty has found out all he can from Jack, then from George who calls on her way to the hospital after the game has ended.

“He told me to stay here and go to the party,” Bitty mutters into a glass of milk. He already had something stronger, downing a somewhat unreasonably large glass of his mother’s favorite Chardonnay while he responded to concerned text messages from his and Jack’s friends. The wine hadn’t helped, so his mother had made the call and started whipping up a pan of fudge brownies.

Mama sighs. “I figured he would, that ridiculous man.”

“Junior,” Coach says, leaning forward in his seat at the table. “I don't mind if you head home. Really.”

Bitty sighs. “I know that, Dad, but if I leave tonight and show up in Providence Jack will have a fit. He says he can't stand the thought of making me miss it. He also said I should stay for the rest of my trip. _That’s_ not happening. But the party… I'll stay. I want to be there, and I'd rather pacify him with that. He’s gonna be a bear about this. Y’all remember the knee thing.”

“Boy do we,” Mama agrees. “But we don't know exactly how bad it is?”

Bitty shakes his head and shoots his mother an attempt at a smile. “No. I'll hear from Jack or George or someone sooner or later, once they get him through imaging. ‘Til then, it’s all unknown.”

Mama takes his hand from across the table and Coach stands, gripping Bitty’s shoulder as he shuffles past.

“It'll be okay,” Mama says. She squeezes Bitty’s hand. “He will be okay.”

“Right,” Bitty says, nodding firmly. “Of course he will.”

Later, he fires off more reassuring texts to the SMH group chat, then texts Shitty and Lardo separately to bring them up to speed since he heard from George.

**Shitty:** Brah, I’m sure he’s fine.

**Lardo:** right right right he’s done the shoulder injury thing before

Bitty texts back: _Are y’all texting me while sitting right next to each other?_ Then: _I know. You’re right, this could be like last time. It was a pretty bad hit, though._

**Lardo:** keep calm, bro

**Shitty:** You want us to do anything? Do you think there are real groceries at your place or has Jack been living off nutritionist-approved frozen chicken breast and whatnot.

**Lardo:** u know the answer to that.

**Shitty:** I’ll run down tomorrow and get some food in your fridge so you don’t starve when you get back. Straight to the hospital, right?

Bitty presses a hand to his chest. _Yes, I’ll go straight to General from the airport. Groceries would be a big help. I love y’all. Thank you,_ he taps out.

**Shitty:** Got your back, pal.

**Lardo:**  get some sleep bits, ilu

Bitty changes for bed and sends Jack a text before climbing into bed: _I hope you’re floating in sleepy morphine land, babydoll. We’ll talk tomorrow. I love you._

He thinks about his mother’s voice and Shitty and Lardo’s reassurances. Jack will be alright. Everything is fine.

 

*

 

_Tendon repair with a donor tendon._

_Significant rotator cuff damage._

_Cartilage loss._

_Limited range of motion._

_Nerve damage._

Jack blinks into the ringing silence in the room once the doctors clear out. He feels like a child for thinking it, but his brain is just stuck on: _My life is over_. It must be less than a minute later, but god knows Jack isn’t tracking time well at the moment, when George slips in and shuts the door behind her.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Jack blinks at her, thinks: _I let her down_ , and says, “George. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh,” George takes two quick strides to his bed and perches right there on the edge.

Jack has known her for almost a decade, has gone to cookouts at her house, has swung her children from his arms and lifted them like weights. His left arm might never hold up to that ever again. George’s warm hand covers his knee through the thin hospital blanket. “What are you apologizing to me for, huh?”

“I’m done,” Jack tells her like she doesn’t already know. “I...I fucked up. I’m done, George.”

Her hand squeezes, tight like the smile on her face. “Oh, Jack. This was not your fault.”

“It wasn’t?” Jack clenches his jaw hard against the angry tears behind his eyes and looks up at the speckled ceiling. “I barely even remember it happening.”

“I’d tell you not to go looking for video, but I know that’s time wasted for both of us,” George says. “Jack Zimmermann, look me in the eye right now.”

Jack huffs, his breath catching on the next inhale. He forces air in through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment before he can stand to do it. His vision isn’t so great with tears threatening to spill over and the low thrum of panic making it hard to focus. He's not usually much of a crier, but the meds are making him shaky and fragile on top of everything else.

“Okay,” Jack says once he’s able to meet George’s gaze.

“You have had a goddamn _stellar_ career, kiddo.”

Jack nods, a little gasp escaping him. He doesn’t lose it yet, though. He’s 34 and George still calls him “kiddo.” It makes him feel young, and at the same time less afraid. He feels like he can hold it together with her, for now.

“Two Cups,” she says. “Record-setting seasons and a points average that legitimately brings tears to my eyes. The C four years ago. Being the first out, bisexual player in the NHL and a beloved figure in this town. None of that is ever-- _ever_ \--going to be taken away from you. You have been _exemplary_. It has been my pleasure to work with you and it will be my privilege to remain your friend. You got that?”

“ _George_ ,” Jack bows his head and grits his teeth. He feels George shift up to hug him sideways, one of her hands coming up to hold his neck the way his mother might, if she were here. He really adores George. As bosses go he couldn’t have asked for better, and as a friend and ally, well, Jack has been lucky in that regard since the day he set foot on the Samwell quad, hasn’t he?

“I love you, kid,” George says to the top of Jack’s hair. “We all do. You might be finished playing but you are not finished with this family. We’ve got your back, okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack manages through a sob. “I know, I know.”

“Besides.” George pushes him gently, using his good side to guide him so she can look him in the eyes once more. “If you think any of us plans to give up Bittle’s cooking _ever_ , you got another thing coming.”

Jack manages to laugh. He swipes at his face with his good hand. “Well he’ll never let you escape us, anyway. He loves you, he loves the Falconers.”

“He loves _you_ ,” George reminds him gently. “He’s getting on a plane tomorrow, I just spoke with him.”

Jack’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” George hurries to assure him. “He’ll get the details when he gets here. There’s no point in upsetting him before he has to sit through a plane ride. We won’t announce anything until after your surgery, but you know how the rumors are going to be over the next couple of days, so it’s best he gets here and hears it from the doctors, and from you.”

“I know,” Jack agrees. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wanted him to stay in Madison. He deserved this break.”

“Hey, that’s marriage,” George teases. “Ask Elena and she’ll tell you. The last fifteen years have been a whole lot of arguing about who ate the last granola bar but left the empty box, and being willing to drop everything to be there for each other when the shit hits the fan. Eric wants to be here, Jack. Let him, no matter how much you want to push him away. Matter of fact, I want you to let us all be here, got it? No turning off your phone, no dodging visits, no holing up. Now look at me and say you promise.”

Jack can’t help the twitch of his lips into a ghost of a smile. She said those exact words to him during his fifth season, when he missed playoffs. The year before, he had sulked his way through a mild concussion mid-season and pissed her off mightily. George had been unwilling to put up with his shit after the second offense, and had made it clear.

“I promise,” Jack says. “I promise, George. I don’t know what I’m doing but I won’t-- I won’t do that.”

“You don’t have to know what you’re doing, kiddo.” George leans forward and lowers her voice. “I think, after awhile, you might even like not knowing. Jack, you have so much life to live, without 82 games to contend with year after year. Get ready, bud, it’s a hell of a good time.”

Jack smiles, and it’s weak, but it’s something, and he feels his body calm, for now, with the sureness in George’s voice.

 

*

 

“Told you to stay and enjoy your trip.”

Bitty is awake-- just woke up, actually, drifting back to awareness with a crick in his neck from using a balled-up SMH hoodie as a pillow and curling up in the frankly horrendous hospital chair. Jack must have noticed something; a shift in Bitty’s posture, a change in his breathing. Bitty straightens in the chair with a sigh, then cracks his neck.

Jack would know that he already spoke to the doctors. That's how this usually goes, with Jack laid up and knocked out on painkillers, and Bitty right behind him to get the details. Bitty saw the replay of the hit, and got enough from the tone of George’s voice over the phone to know that this time was very much unlike the handful of others.

Dr. Andrejczuk only needed to say the words “significant nerve damage” and “loss of range of motion” for Bitty to get that this one was the last one.

“I know what you told me,” he says, smiling at Jack across the dimmed room. “I also know that you know better.”

“C’mere, bud.”

Bitty doesn't waste any time getting out of his seat and across to Jack’s bed. Jack indicates his good side, the one not completely immobilized by a complicated sling-and-straps system, and Bitty slides into bed with him, stretching out along his side. He feels the hitch in Jack’s breathing when he presses his cheek to Jack’s chest.

“You're okay, sweetpea,” Bitty murmurs. He turns his head and presses his lips to the thin fabric of the hospital gown, only up on one of Jack’s shoulders. His left side is somewhat exposed, bruising apparent along his shoulder and down his side. “It's okay,” Bitty says.

“It’s not really,” Jack chokes.

Bitty presses his forehead to Jack’s chest. “I know. I already know, sweetheart.”

He doesn't say anything as Jack heaves under him, half-sobs and gasps. He waits, tears stinging his own eyes.

“I'm glad you're here,” Jack says finally, when he can speak. His voice is tight with grief and pain. “How was the party?”

Bitty tips his face up to look at Jack’s pale, drawn face. “It was great, and Mama and Coach say hi.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No, honey.” Bitty shifts up so he can share Jack’s pillow. He runs a gentle hand through Jack’s hair- a bit greasy, but still soft. “We’ll worry about it later.”

“I'm so...god. It's sad, right? I'm… sad. And fucking _angry_.”

“It is sad,” Bitty whispers. “I'm devastated for you and for the boys. This… this isn't fair, none of it is fair. I'm sorry. I want to fucking kill that Rangers asshole. So does everyone else, actually. My phone has been exploding. _Parse_ is livid.”

Jack barks a sharp, bitter laugh. “Fuck Parse,” he says. “I can't… I can't even think about telling him I'm out. I guess I'm not done being jealous of his career, eh? Thought I was.”

“Kent’s retiring after next season,” Bitty reminds him gently.

“Yeah, of course he gets to do that. He gets to choose.”

“Oh, baby.” Bitty kisses Jack’s forehead and cradles his head in one hand. He can hear more tears under all that anger and bluster. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

 

*

 

The press conference takes place the week after Jack’s surgery. His arm is still strapped to his side, the left side of his suit jacket draped with the sleeve pinned. He looks handsome, but tired and drawn.

Bitty watches the feed from a conference room with Alicia Zimmermann. Bob is somewhere with management and guests, ready to keep them off Jack once it’s all said and done.

After George gives a statement, and after Jack’s short speech delivered in his usual press-time monotone, the questions start. Bitty ignores this part, as does Alicia. It's a trick she taught him years ago, to save his sanity. It doesn't matter what they ask now. It doesn't matter what Jack says now. The story will be the story whether or not Bitty sits and listens, enraged at the prying and pointed comments.

“How are you, sweet boy?” Alicia asks, covering Bitty’s hands with her own. “I know all the answers about Jack, so don't recite me his prognosis and clinical notes, okay? How are _you_?”

Bitty takes a deep breath and holds it before he lets himself decide on an answer. The truth.

“I'm relieved,” he admits, staring at their hands. “Is that awful? I hate how devastated he is, and I would've done this, lived this life, for another ten years if he wanted to. But.”

Alicia squeezes his hands. “But now you get your husband every day, eh? For more than three months out of the year?”

Bitty looks up and smiles. Alicia smiles back. She doesn't look even the slightest perturbed by his words. Bitty knew, really, that she wouldn't be. She had lived this life, hadn't she? She’d had her own busy career with lots of travel and a packed schedule, of course. But Bitty knows that she understands.

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “Honestly, I feel overwhelmed with choices. Nothing’s certain now. Will we even stay in Rhode Island? Will he want to move to Canada? What will he _do_ ? What will _I_ do?”

“Do you want to move to Canada?”

“No offense, Maman, but no.”

Alicia laughs her movie star laugh and drags her chair around to sling one cashmere-clad arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “Where do you want to live?”

“I… have no idea.”

“Quick, without stopping to think, what’s your dream job?”

“I…” Bitty huffs. “I don't know!”

“Social media manager for a restaurant group? Is this your dream?”

Bitty snorts. He likes his job well enough, but… “No, not even remotely.”

“Mmm.” Alicia gives him a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “Jack can do anything, and he can do it anywhere now. He can go to school again. Take photographs. Start a charity. He can coach, or train, or consult. Montreal, Boston, Providence. Hell, he'd go to Atlanta if you missed Georgia.”

Bitty shakes his head, fast and wide eyed. “Nope.”

Alicia just winks at him. “You have been a very patient, forgiving man, Eric. Jack loves you for it and so do Bobby and I. But now? I think it's time you had your turn. Jack can do anything, yes. But so can you. What do you think?”

Bitty doesn't answer right away. He watches on TV as George tells the press they can take one more question. He watches Dan, one of their favorite reporters, raise his hand and get picked.

“Well, Jack. What’s next?”

Bitty watches his husband’s face for a sign of distress, watches to see if he can keep it blank. To his surprise, Jack smiles. Alicia’s arm tightens ever so slightly around him.

“I don't know,” Jack answers. “I've always wanted to get my Masters. Maybe start a family. For right now though, Dan, I just want to get my arm moving again and hang out with my husband.” Then, to the room at large he nods politely and says, “Thanks guys,” before standing up and walking away.

A few shouted questions follow him out. Alicia clears her throat and wipes at her eyes. “No pressure darling, but if I could get just one grandchild before he goes full out into a degree program--”

Bitty throws his head back and laughs, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, but these, finally, are happy ones.

 

*

 

It's not so simple, because life isn't.

Jack hits depression hard and fast the day the doctors tell him he can start PT for the shoulder. After weeks of immobilizing the arm, nearly a month waiting for the angry dark bruising to fade, and countless days of needing help with every little task from putting on socks to getting to appointments, Jack gets back some of his freedom and about 20% of his range of motion on the left side.

His physical therapist tells him that they will get him up to 75% and most likely he'll only have intermittent numbness in the hand.

Jack takes this poorly, as if he’s being told for the first time that professional hockey is no longer part of his future.

Bitty suffers. Jack suffers. Tater, when he tries to visit the first several times, suffers. Shitty visits exactly one time, is shouted out of the apartment by Jack who is in a _hell_ of a mood, and retreats to texts. He keeps a standing weekly phone date with Bitty so they can talk shit about their favorite Hockey Prince and worry over him together.

They both think Jack doesn't know what they're saying to each other. For a while, it makes Jack furious. Eventually, it's a little funny, and he gets that it's just the way they can love him when he's being (and yes he knows he's being) a complete self-pitying dickface (Shitty’s words as he backed out of the condo).

Alicia and Bob make a point to Skype like clockwork, and spend most of the calls talking to Bitty while Jack sits blankly in the frame, his replies to their gentle attempts at chatter short and flat, punctuated by one-sided shrugs.

Jack can’t force himself out of it, though he knows he should want to. Everything feels flat and boring, like there’s no point to anything. He hates everything.

Once, three weeks into PT, Jack wakes up thinking he might go out to lunch with the guys after practice, realizes he doesn't have practice anymore and never will again, and ends up throwing a mug at the wall.

Bitty comes running from the bedroom clutching a hockey stick like a weapon, only to find Jack leaned over the breakfast bar with his head in his hands and ceramic shards at his feet.

 

*

 

In that moment, Bitty can feel his patience wearing thin. He shuffles Jack out of the way and cleans up the remains of the mug, then presses kisses to Jack’s face once he gets him to move and sit down at the table.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” Jack murmurs.

“Make an appointment with Candace,” Bitty says softly. “Today. Right now.”

Jack recoils, and for a moment Bitty thinks he's going to be physically pushed away. It feels like his heart stops in that moment, his chest tight with fear. Jack doesn't push him away, but Bitty can tell he wanted to, and the knowledge settles in his body like lead.

“Don't start with me, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty says. He finds firmness to inject into his voice, though he has no idea where it comes from. He feels like he could fall apart along with Jack. He doesn't know why he doesn't, except that they can't _both_ lose it, can they? “You know you have to. You have to, honey, please-- please take care of yourself.”

“You don't understand,” Jack mumbles, his eyes fixed somewhere over Bitty’s shoulder. “You couldn't possibly understand what this feels like.”

Bitty rocks back in his chair. He keeps one hand on Jack’s knee, even though what he wants to do is pull away and stand up and slam out of the condo. “I don't understand what it feels like to lose something? You think I don't understand that?”

Jack won't look at him.

“I have had things taken from me,” Bitty says, drawing on reserves of calm and patience he never really knew he had. He does not raise his voice. He wants to, badly. “I have given up things that I love. I've bent myself backwards and into pretzels to make myself fit. Over and over. And you know that.”

Jack blinks rapidly and draws in a shaky breath.

Bitty just keeps talking. “You are so angry, and so sad, Jack. You should be, okay? It's okay that you are. But you can not let it swallow you, and you can not expect me to go down that hole with you. _Look at me_.”

Jack does.

“I love you,” Bitty says, and touches Jack’s face. He wipes away the barest trace of tears at the corner of Jack’s eye. “I want you to be happy, and you _can_ be happy now. But you need help. Jack, please. You banished _Shitty_ . I don't know what to do, _please_.”

Jack leans into Bitty’s hand and nods. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bitty leans forward and tips their heads together. “It'll be okay.”

Later, after he coaxes Jack into the shower and decides they're going out for a late breakfast just so they can get those divine omelettes from the place down the street, Bitty hands Jack his phone.

“Call Candace first, southwestern omelette second.”

Jack sighs and takes it, then dials his therapist.

 

*

 

The first week of the next season is hard. Jack knows he's acting like a dick again but can't seem to stop himself. Bitty takes it in stride--it's not as bad as it was eight months ago, that's for sure. They aren't at each other’s throats, for one thing. For a while there, Bitty looked like he was going to beam Jack with a rolling pin if he had to put up with one more endless sulk, and sometimes Jack found himself annoyed by every word that fell from Bitty’s lips.

Shitty had returned to the condo once Bitty gave the all-clear a couple months ago, and Jack only recently stopped apologizing for being a dickface every single time. Shitty just shakes his head at him and lays smacking kisses to the side of his face. Jack is grateful.

He has gone down to twice-monthly appointments with Candace, and no longer needs to be coaxed into going. Jack and Bitty even attended George’s Labor Day cookout and it had gone well. Jack had been anxious about it, worried he didn’t really belong there anymore. But while it hadn’t been exactly the same - new captain (a rookie from Jack’s sixth year, now just as popular with fans as Jack, and a good guy Jack still thinks of as a kid), new guys on the team, and Jack had missed nine months of inside jokes. But these were still his friends, and some were practically family. Jack had been off-kilter at times, but it had been a great day in the end, complete with Tater attempting to carry Bitty over his head one-handed. Enough of it remained the same, Jack realized as they were handed tupperware on their way out the door. There was still room for him there.

So he’s doing a lot better now, but this was always going to be a rough patch.

Jack decides to watch the Falconers’ home opener on TV, despite the fact that George emailed a month ago to tell him she would have seats in the box for him and Bitty. He can't do it yet, but maybe someday soon.

Bitty has been a saint, and Jack knows it. He does his best to tell him so in the ways he knows how.

The morning of the game, Jack looks up from breakfast and makes an effort to smile. “Bits? Thanks.”

“Got your back, baby,” is all Bitty says, dropping a third biscuit onto Jack’s plate.

  
“I’m gonna put on weight, you know,” Jack says, and it’s barely a protest. The biscuits are so _good_.

Bitty laughs. “What’s your point?”

He smiles at Jack and Jack can’t help but feel better. The honey-butter flavored kiss he gets next helps that feeling along.

Jack Skypes with Shitty and Lardo after the game so he doesn’t stew over the Falcs’ loss in overtime, with Bitty chiming in from the background while he rearranges the kitchen yet again.

“I think Bittle’s outgrowing the kitchen,” Jack comments, as he watches Bitty stand in the middle of said kitchen with the stand-mixer clutched to his chest, staring around in consternation.

“You need a house,” Shitty declares. “A big one with a room for me.”

Bitty snorts and hefts the mixer onto the breakfast bar. “Why not a compound, then? Lots of little houses, one for each member of SMH?”

“Now you're cookin’ with gas,” Shitty says, snapping his fingers at the camera.

Bitty laughs and says something that sets Shitty howling, but Jack has checked out, just a little, from the conversation. He watches them talk but his brain stopped around “you need a house,” and has been grinding back into gear, visions of a back yard and a kitchen that would make Bitty breathless, and guest rooms and the same pictures that currently hang on the walls of the condo on new walls beside family portraits.

“Jack?”

“Huh? Oh.”

Shitty is looking at Jack expectantly, which means he’s been talking _to_ Jack without realizing Jack was miles away. Beside him, Lardo is smirking, which means she probably read his mind while he sat there having a brief existential epiphany. Bitty’s shoulder is pressed to Jack’s now and he’s looking up at Jack with the little line between his eyebrows, the one he insists is going to become a real wrinkle any day now.

“Sorry,” Jack says. “I was, um. What?”

There are laughs and the conversation moves on. In the back of Jack’s mind he thinks, _it’ll need a good tree for a tire swing._

 

*

 

They close on the house the same week the Falconers are knocked out of playoffs in the second round. Jack and Bitty are at that game. Bitty thinks Jack has found it easier to go as a spectator since they started focusing on real estate shopping. The man has purpose, that’s for sure. It has been... A Thing.

Bitty had not known it was going to be A Thing when Jack sat him down one morning in October and said, “We really need to move.”

Bitty hadn’t been surprised, exactly, because honestly the condo was stuffed to the brim with the _stuff_ the both of them had accumulated over nearly a decade living in it, and it only had two bedrooms and the small office. It wasn’t great for having more than two guests stay over at a time, and the majority of their friends have children who would _wreck_ the place every time they hosted a get together.

Bitty had been a bit taken aback by the way Jack said it, firm and decisive, with his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth in a determined line.

Bitty had just thrown up one hand and said, “Honey, whatever you want. Let’s move! Where?”

That was the moment the Thing began. It started with lists titled things like ‘where to live?’, ‘architecture styles’, ‘backyard must haves’, and ‘neighborhoods’. They popped up in their text messages to each other, on post-it notes, and on the back of grocery lists. The question of where was answered quickly - they would stay in Rhode Island, or at least close by.

“Not Canada?”

Jack had snorted. “What? Why _Canada_?”

“It’s where you’re from,” Bitty pressed, squeezing a bundle of cheesecloth-wrapped mozzarella over the sink. “Don’t you want to go back?”

“You wanna go back to Georgia?”

“ _Please_.”

“Well,” Jack had said, leaning past Bitty to place his empty coffee cup in the sink. He pressed a quick kiss to Bitty’s cheek. “Same, I guess. Not Canada. Boston?”

“Maybe,” Bitty said with a hum. They would be able to see Shitty and Lardo more in Boston, but less of their friends in Providence. He sighed. “This is hard.”

Jack patted his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, it’ll get easier. This is probably the hard part, eh?”  

It did not get easier.

Jack has Opinions about architecture, which Bitty has somehow missed in the twelve years since they met. Bitty stressed over school ratings and the commute to his job.

Jack brought it up in October, and by March Bitty is fit to tear his hair out if he has to go on one more house tour, and he is going to flee to Georgia and let Jack figure it out and surprise him with whatever house he picks if the man fires _one more_ realtor. But Bitty keeps his hair, and never does book that ticket to Madison.

They tour the house in early April. Bitty feels the urge to take a moment in the foyer, left behind by Jack and their latest real estate agent, Joaquin. Bitty has seen dozens, possibly somewhere near a hundred houses by now, so he isn’t expecting much excitement when they walk into what looks, from the outside, like a perfectly lovely stone building. Joaquin had expounded on its history as a late-19th century factory, its conversion to a home during World War II. Bitty hadn’t paid much attention, he’s so used to none of it meaning anything in the end when the house inevitably turns out to be no good for them.

But, for no reason he can figure at the moment, he stops in the foyer in this house, and blinks. The front hall is narrow and a bit crowded the way it’s staged, with a side table and a coat rack and an umbrella stand. But it’s warm and pleasantly close, with lovely hardwood floors. There’s a staircase to the right and not much else to see. Jack and Joaquin turned left at the end of the little hallway and Bitty heard something about “open plan.” There’s nothing in this entryway that should be remarkable, but Bitty feels...something.

He catches up to Jack and Joaquin around the corner, in a cozy living room which opens to a sunroom on one side, and flows into a dining room on the other. Bitty stands there and can see straight to the kitchen, separated by a breakfast bar. It reminds him of the condo, in the best way. He could work in the kitchen and still be able to see anyone who might be hanging around.

“Joaquin says there’s potential for a second kitchen in the addition,” Jack tells him.

Bitty raises an eyebrow. “A second kitchen? What for?”  

Jack shrugs, grinning. “I dunno. What would you do with a second, professional kitchen?”

Bitty laughs. “Sweetheart, I might _sleep_ in it, it sounds amazing, but--”

“Let's just look at the rest,” Jack interrupts. “Maybe you'll want to use the addition for something else, who knows?”

“It would make a wonderful home fitness center,” Joaquin chimes in, then leads them through the room.

Jack makes a noncommittal noise and waits for Bitty at the doorway to the sunroom.

Bitty is in awe of the sprawling green yard. Joaquin walks them down to an honest-to-god _babbling brook_ , and an old, weather-worn footbridge that leads over it to the back half of the property.

They stand in the early spring sun and breeze. Jack and Joaquin are talking history and the farmland that once surrounded the house. Bitty wanders back toward the house, taking in the pool enclosed by a wrought iron fence, the yellow-siding addition that is somewhat incongruous to the centuries-old stone facade of the house. There’s a gorgeous deck off the back. Bitty likes it. He tentatively loves it.

He waits for something to pop up that he doesn't like, or for Jack to point out a problem. It doesn't happen.

They move into the kitchen, which Joaquin says was once a galley, but has been expanded in renovations. It's big but not excessive, updated but classic. Bitty is obsessed with the way the daylight slants in and warms up the flecks of gold in the granite countertops.

The master suite is huge, with a walk-in closet and en suite bathroom. Jack comments on how nice the carpet is. _The carpet_ . If there’s one thing Jack can usually be relied on to hate in any given house, it’s the flooring. Bitty hums and agrees absently that it is indeed _super_ nice carpet. He’s distracted by the view from the wide windows, which is picturesque to the point of surreality.

Upstairs there are three bedrooms and two gorgeous bathrooms, with clawfoot tubs and old fashioned porcelain tile. Jack goes into paroxysms of history geek bliss over it all.  

There’s a basement den with a bar and kitchenette, and exposed beams stretching toward built-in bookcases. Jack loves this room the most, and says as much to Bitty, leaning down to murmur in his ear while Joaquin rattles off facts about the foundation. Bitty presses into Jack’s side and nods. He loves it too. He wants to live here now, immediately. He wants to be curled up watching TV in this cozy little family room _tonight_.

The addition is gigantic. There’s room for _two_ more kitchens, or for one and a gym. Bitty finds himself back in the foyer at the end of it all, feeling peace settle in his chest.

Joaquin excuses himself to take a phone call.

“We need this house,” Bitty blurts, looking up at Jack. “This is it, this is the house.”

“I want you to quit your job.”

Bitty blinks at Jack, rearing back a little. “ _What?_ ”

He’s surprised at the flash of anger in his chest. Jack wants him to _quit his job_? They’ve talked about Bitty applying elsewhere or changing careers, taking time to look into more education. They’ve joked about becoming students again, together. Jack has said he wants Bitty to take advantage of their newfound freedom and try whatever new things he wants. He has casually mentioned being a stay-at-home-dad, even. And now suddenly he wants Bitty to quit?

He never asked, in all the years they’ve been together, even though Bitty offered years ago. They had been deep in baby fever after Chowder’s second was born, but they both knew there was no way they could dive into that with Jack’s schedule and Bitty working full time. Not in a way that would keep them both happy, anyway. Bitty had suggested quitting his job, knowing in his heart it was the wrong way to do it, that he didn’t want to be alone with a child, but they weren’t getting any younger-- and Jack had seen it all in his face and told him he didn’t have to, that they could just wait a little longer.

Bitty is furious. Jack is _ruining_ _the moment_. They’re barreling through Jack’s second year out of the NHL, coming off what has genuinely been the hardest period in their lives together. Bitty’s supposed to be making decisions he couldn’t make before, and here Jack is--

“I said that wrong,” Jack says, then reaches out and rubs his hands down Bitty’s arms. “It’s just that you’ve mentioned it. You’ve mentioned it a lot. More than any of the other options we’ve talked about, you’ve mentioned quitting your job and baking full-time. Starting a business, producing videos, writing a cookbook. It’s always a joke when you say it, but you say it all the time. So I think you should quit. Build the big kitchen and bake all day. Or don’t, I don’t care. Turn the addition into a theater. A bowling alley. I don’t want a fitness center, god, fuck that _sincerely_ , I think I’m pretty done with working out like I used to. I’ll run, this neighborhood is amazing for it, or cycling-- we can get bikes, would you want to do that? But this is where we start, right? Bits, this must be the place. Don’t you think? You could quit your job and just figure it--”

Bitty slaps a hand over his husband’s _stupid_ , perfect mouth. “Jack, _Jack_ \-- Yes. Okay. Yes. Get us bikes. Maybe make the offer on the house first, though. I’ll _think_ about the job thing.”

Jack’s eyes crinkle when his lips curve under Bitty’s palm. Relief has flooded Bitty so thoroughly, he feels giddy, almost weak. He feels a bit silly for the moment of anger, for the assumption. But it really _has_ been rough, and while he’s been pretty sure Jack has finally started to regain his footing, the aftermath of the injury had left sore spots between them. He’s not always waiting for Jack to do or say something borderline unforgivable these days, and he’s rarely caught off guard by his own irritation and anger.

“Is this too good to be true?” Bitty asks Jack, because he has always needed to be reassured when his life seems to be working, even when he’s worked to make it so. It’s that worried insecurity that makes him jump to conclusions, like he just did.

Jack holds one of Bitty’s hands between two of his. He doesn’t answer the question, because Joaquin pops back through the front door before he can. Bitty initiates a silent conversation made of meaningful eyebrow movements and nods. Jack’s smile widens and he turns to Joaquin--

“We’ll take it,” Bitty blurts. “Where do we sign?”

 

*

 

_Epilogue - 4 years later_

 

“Okay, a toast!”

Jack groans. “Ugh, Papa, you already gave _two_.”

“And? You had one degree, now you have two. I’m giving the appropriate number of toasts, plus one for good measure. Now shush.”

Jack rolls his eyes and lets Bitty jostle at him until he’s grinning, slinging one arm over Bitty’s shoulders and leaning into him as his father starts his third champagne-fueled speech of the day. Anna, nine months old and easily bored, reaches over from her perch in Bitty’s lap and tugs at Jack’s tie. He loosens it so she doesn’t choke him but lets her have her way. Bitty slides him a look out of the corner of his eye and Jack smiles down at him, then leans forward for a quick peck of a kiss.

Jack, surprising even himself, is the pushover parent. Bitty sighs over his default role as “mean daddy,” but Anna adores him. Bitty has a magic touch that calms her, gets her tears to taper off and her body to relax in his arms. It takes him moments, even if Jack has been trying for an hour, or all day. Jack would be jealous, maybe, if the sight of them together didn't make him so painfully _happy_ every single time.

Now, Bitty reaches over to gently unwrap her chubby hand from Jack’s tie. He hands her a plastic spoon from the table and she accepts it happily, sticking one end in her mouth and kicking her legs. Jack traces a finger down her nose and her face scrunches as a little gurgle escapes from around the spoon.

It’s late May, and the sun is setting on Jack’s second graduation day. Their back yard is packed with people. Somehow they’ve managed to wind up in the center of it (most likely through some subtle herding and seating engineering on Bitty’s part), Jack and his family surrounded by the people who love them.

Off down the gentle slope of the yard, Jack can hear the screeching voices of children who call them Uncle as they take turns on the swings. Under Jack’s feet, Butter the yellow lab pants and waits for someone to drop something for him to gobble up.

Bitty looks ridiculously good in this light, in that light blue shirt, with their daughter blowing slobbery raspberries into his neck while she hangs off Jack’s tie, her hand having snuck back over as soon as Bitty turned his attention back to Bob.

Jack hasn't been surprised by his life in a long time, mostly just deeply grateful in moments like this, when he can stop and see direct evidence that not only did he survive, over and over, but thrived. So much of that is thanks to the man sitting next to him, but most of it, he knows, was a combination of luck and hard, at times reluctant, work on his own part.

Jack knows that hockey was the gift the universe gave him. That it was the only thing, other than loving Eric Bittle, that ever came naturally to him. Any roadblock he ever encountered in that part of his life had everything to do with his failures outside of the sport. And for the longest time, Jack had felt like a failure in every possible way.

Next to him, Bitty distracts Anna with more plastic cutlery and a bouncing knee. Jack knows that Bitty feels that way about himself, or used to. That Bitty comes by his talent for food the way a bird can fly- the bird doesn't work at it, the bird just _does it_ , perfectly every time. But that Bitty, for the first twenty years of his life, never thought that what was natural and innate about himself could ever be the _most important._

Jack thinks it's only right that at the same time he had to find out who he was without hockey, Bitty finally made who he was about the things he does as easy as breathing.

It turns out, Jack finds more than just hockey almost that easy, now. Walking his big, somewhat clueless dog every night at sunset. Coaching peewee again. Being part of a stay-at-home-parents book club. Growing strawberries (his tomatoes failed miserably, but he’ll get them next time). Writing a thesis. Loving his daughter. And always, always being with Bitty. It turns out things are easy like that when you want them to be.

Jack’s father is actually _tearing up_ now, and Jack smiles.

Life is good.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, in my head Reporter Dan is Dan Erikson from petals42's Ethics of Journalism. I just love him, so I borrowed his first name here. 
> 
> Look up 5 bedroom homes in Lincoln, RI and you'll find Jack and Bitty's home is currently on the market! Not too expensive, either, at $1.5mil ;)


End file.
